


Just Like My Father's Eyes

by CapGirlCanuck



Series: FoxholeBros [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Connected to my fix-it FYI, Father's Day, Father-Son Relationship, Fatherly Advice, Gen, Steve and his father, Time Travel, Time travelling Steve Rogers, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-12 13:16:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19229875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CapGirlCanuck/pseuds/CapGirlCanuck
Summary: When Steve goes back in time, he makes a stop in Brooklyn. Which leads him to a World War I battlefield, and a man with the same eyes as his own. Because he's not just Sarah's son. He's Joseph's too.





	Just Like My Father's Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> So Thor got advice from his mom, and Tony got to make peace with his father. I was thinking of doing something special for Father's Day (with a shoutout to Mom) and this just grabbed a hold of me.  
> Hope it's not too rough. I was in a hurry to finish it in time.  
> This does work with my canon compliant fix-it.

_My dad is my number one hero on this earth. He's taught me all of this, but without so many words. He's a hard-working farmer with rough hands and a soft heart, who loves me to infinity and beyond. And I still believe he knows everything. Maybe one day he’ll read this. (Or maybe I’ll read it to him.)_

**_Dedicated to the man I still occasionally call ‘Daddy’. Happy Father’s Day. XOXO_ **

 

In Steve’s eyes, all of it was exactly how he remembered.

The bookcase and worn couch in the living room, with the cushions that two little boys had slept on so many times, the little grandfather clock keeping its steady rhythm.

Steve stood for a few moments in the dark, listening to the passing of time.

In the kitchen, he lit a candle, preferring the warm yellow glow to the harsh whiteness of his flashlight.

As he slipped into the bedroom, he glanced first to the cot in the corner, watched the face of his younger self: thin, but smooth, unmarred. He could hear the rasp in those small lungs, and gave a little sigh, before he turned away.

She was fast asleep, her red-gold hair unbound, strewn across the pillow. The candlelight danced and gleamed on the silky strands.

Steve stood for a long time, staring down at his mother.

Her full lips, her face, with lines, yes, but most of all: color. The sound of her deep, regular breathing.

This was how he liked to remember her, the way he would always remember her. So strong, so beautiful, so gentle. So brave. Truly the most amazing woman he had ever known. Or ever would know.

He had a sudden intense longing to feel her arms around him, her chin resting on his head. He wanted to curl up in her lap, and rest his head against her chest, and listen to her singing. No matter how old he got, he would always be his mother’s son.

Steve bit his lip, then as his hand holding the candle moved, he saw the light catch on something. He glanced over at the nightstand, the three framed photographs.

Little Steve Rogers, all of ten years old, standing as straight as he could in his good school clothes, a determined expression on his face.

Sarah Rogers, cradling her baby son in her arms, smiling down at him with all the love and pride in the world.

Joseph and Sarah Rogers, arm in arm; Joseph in his army uniform, crisp and neat, chin up, staring into the camera, while Sarah pressed against his side, wearing the sort of smile that said she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but she loved that man with everything in her.

Steve found himself drawn to his father’s face, his eyes… and then he could hear his mother’s voice: _“You are your father’s son.”_

He knew he took after Sarah, with his fair hair and formerly small build. But his eyes, his eyes were his father’s, she’d told him that. And that little sigh she’d give, before smiling at his cuts and bruises, blackened eyes and bleeding noses. _“You’re just like your father.”_

After all, he was Joseph’s son as much as he was Sarah’s.

Steve blinked, sucked in a deep breath, turned back to the bed. He stared down at her tired but peaceful face. Silently, he bent over, inhaled the smell of her: baking, flowers, and hospital disinfectant.

He kissed her cheek, featherlight; whispered the words he’d longed to say one more time: “I love you, Mama. I’ll always love you.”

As he stepped away, he thought she smiled in her sleep, lines smoothing out just a little more. He moved to the door, glancing over at the boy in the corner. _Love her with everything you have, Steve._

Back in the kitchen he reprogrammed his GPS, and blew out the candle.

He vanished in the darkness.

*******

In the rain and the dark and the mud, Steve had some difficulty finding his way. Men crouched against the walls of the trenches, many tucked into foxholes they’d dug, huddled against the wet and the weariness.

“Rogers?” he asked, more than once. “I’m looking for Lieutenant Joseph Rogers.”

Some hardly lifted their heads, and Steve felt their threadbare spirits like a keen blade in his heart. He knew he had the right regiment though, and at last he was directed toward the glow of a small fire, tucked under a sheet of tin placed across the top of the trench.

Five officers hunched their shoulders, reaching out to the meager warmth with trembling, grimy hands. In response to Steve’s question, one man pointed to a figure Steve had overlooked. He sat on the edge of the group, just in the dry. He chewed on the end of a pencil, a pad of paper resting on his knees.

Steve felt his heart rate kick up several notches when the man lifted his head, and their eyes met.

_Dad?_

The man raised an eyebrow, even as the others went back to their conversation, ignoring Steve.

Steve blinked, gripped the little package in the right pocket of his greatcoat, where it had stayed mostly dry. Slowly he stepped under the sheltering roof, pulling off his cap to knock the worst of the rain off it. It was only four steps to where the Lieutenant sat, sketchbook in hand, but Steve had the most peculiar feeling that he was crossing a bridge; a bridge as real as the one in Brooklyn, but this one made of space and time.

He stared down at the dirty face, the dirty brown hair… and the piercing blue eyes.

“Lieutenant Joseph Rogers?” he asked one more time.

“Aye. What is it?”

“Mail for you.”

That was all Steve really trusted himself to say, before he dropped the brown-wrapped parcel in his father’s lap, and sank down next to him, as if he was simply happy to get out of the rain, like any other soldier.

“Mail?” Lieutenant Rogers glanced at him. “Sure, and it’s a bit late at night. Did this one get lost?”

Steve merely nodded, but that satisfied the other man.

“Sure, it happens. Thanks, soldier.”

Steve nodded again, managed to add, “You’re welcome, sir.”

He was almost shivering, as he leaned back against the mud wall, less than three feet between his shoulder and his father’s. Steve watched the man sideways in the fire’s flickering light, taking in the details of his face, listening to the sound of his breathing. With his enhanced hearing, he could even pick out the beat of his dad’s heart.

Joseph Rogers picked up his sketchbook, and suddenly Steve wanted very much for him to _not_ fold it up and tuck it under his coat.

“Mind if I see what you’re drawing?” he blurted, his voice coming out strange and hoarse.

Joseph Rogers gave him a sideways look, and Steve could _feel_ his shyness over the idea. Then it was gone in a half-smile and a shrug. “Sure.”

Their hands brushed as Steve took the pad of paper. He knew what a precious commodity it was down here, and he handled it gently, making sure not to smear anything on the page. He tilted it in such a way to see better in the firelight, but also so he could watch his dad on the periphery.

His dad's accent was thicker than Sarah’s subtle brogue, which only really showed up if she was angry or emotional about something.

It took Steve a few moments to focus, and then he blinked.

A soldier knelt by the side of his prone comrade, their clasped hands resting on the one man’s chest. The outside edges of the drawing were single lines, pale suggestions around the carefully shaded detail of the hands at the centre.

He must have been staring for longer than he thought, because when Steve lifted his head, he found his dad looking back, the now unwrapped chocolate bar in one hand, the small photograph in the other.

Steve blinked, glanced at the picture, back at his father. An invisible thread of understanding wove itself between them; something deeper than Steve’s words, “You’re a good artist,” would imply. He handed the drawing back, and Joseph Rogers nodded slowly.

“It’s a bloody hell out here. But every now and then,” he gave a little smile, and for a moment Steve felt as if he was looking into a mirror. Because that was _his_ little smile.

Joseph closed the sketchbook and tucked it away, before cracking open the chocolate. “Here,” he said, offering a square to Steve. “For your effort. I’ll save the rest to share with George later.”

“Thanks,” Steve said softly. He let the bittersweet candy melt slowly on his tongue, watching as the other man stared at the photograph for a long time.

His chin was covered in a scruffy beard, which reminded Steve of when he’d stopped shaving, back before, well… before Thanos. Joseph Rogers’s face was thin, but then so was everyone’s. But at the same time, he held his shoulders back, not slumped and rounded like so many others.

“That your wife?” Steve asked.

Lieutenant Rogers started, looked up with a little smile. “Aye.” He angled the scrap of card so Steve could see, not that Steve needed to. His smile grew broader. “I’ll be a father in the summer, too.”

Steve met those hopeful eyes, bit back the words _“You already are”,_ and smiled back. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

The picture and chocolate also went the way of the sketchbook, and Joseph Rogers settled back, hands resting on his knees. “I’d offer you a smoke, but I ran out last week.”

Silently, Steve pulled a single cigarette out of his pocket, along with a dry match, handed it over.

His dad’s eyes lit up, but he hesitated. “You sure?”

“Sure.” Steve stretched his legs out on the wet, but not sloppy ground. Joseph found somewhere to strike the match. “What do you want: a boy or a girl?”

“Boy.” His eyes crinkled up when he smiled. “But I won’t be complaining as long as it’s healthy.”

Steve stared down as his hands. “But what if you never make it back?” he asked softly.

He felt the other man’s sharp glance, then there was a long silence, while the smoke curled above their heads, before Lieutenant Rogers spoke again. His words came slow and thoughtful, but not hesitating, as if he’d had this all worked out and stored up in his head and was just letting the tape run.

“Aye, and that’s possible. All the men I’ve seen, who never made it back. Any day it could be my turn. And that’s why I promised her. But I didn’t promise her I’d come home. I promised her I’d _do my best_. Do my best here, and do my best to get home too. She knows I love her, and I’ll love her ‘til I take my last breath, and beyond. She knows that, whether it happens here, or there. Right now, I’m here, with these men, who I’ve also pledged my best to. Whatever that looks like. I might not always want to, but I am… I am willing.”

A picture of his father's gravestone came to Steve's mind:  _John 15:13._

_Greater love hath no man..._

“And what about your son? Or daughter.”

“Aye.” The other man’s tone was much more somber. “All I know is, I want him to be proud of me. Sure, I want to show him how to live. But I remember something my Nan used to say. _‘Knowing how to live includes knowing how to die.’_ Sure, and I may not know much about being a father,” he looked up and smiled suddenly at Steve, shy again, “but I know I want him to be proud of me.”

Steve swallowed hard, and glanced sideways, finding a smile on his lips. “He… will be.” Good grief, he’d almost said, _“He is.”_ He needed to be careful not to get carried away.

This time the silence was longer, easier. Steve listened to the subdued chatter, the coming and going of other soldiers, while his father nursed the cigarette.

“You ever done anything you regret?”

Lieutenant Rogers glanced at him, shrugged, exhaled a long stream of smoke from his lips. “Sure, and who hasn’t? All you can do after the fact is learn from them. Sometimes you get a good story, in the bargain.”

Steve took a deep breath now. “But what if you could rewrite those stories? Your life. What if you could rewrite those things in the past?”

Joseph barked a laugh. “No one can do that, lad.” He eyed Steve with some amusement, and Steve looked away, clenching his jaw.

When Joseph spoke again, it was quieter, serious again. “The past can never be undone; nothing can be unwritten. But I suppose the one thing you can do is write a new story. Or help someone else write a better one. One without the mistakes you made.” He shrugged again, coughed into his sleeve. “Learn from the past, like I said. But don’t live there. Don’t live there.”

There was something dark and sad in the man’s eyes that caught at Steve’s heart, once more giving him the sense of seeing himself. “Is that what you’d tell your son?” Steve asked softly. “Or daughter?”

Now Joseph smiled again, chasing the shadows away. He pulled up one leg, propped his right elbow on it, the cigarette dangling from his fingers. “Something like that I suppose.” He gazed off into the middle distance. “Love the ones you’ve been given to love, in their time and place. Live the life you’ve been given to live, in your time and place. My Nan used to say, ‘Life’s a gift, lad. That’s why it’s called the present.’”

There was a pause, before he added, with a husky chuckle, “Sure, and you’ve got me sounding like Father Benjamin.”

Steve swallowed around the lump in his throat. “Well, you _are_ going to be a dad.”

Joseph’s laugh rang out, and Steve inevitably found himself smiling along. It hit him as he stared at the soldier, the man with his dirty coat and tired face, and his eyes twinkling: this man, this living breathing man was his _father_.

He heard the echo of Aunt Winnie’s words to Bucky or the girls: _“Listen to your father.”_ Maybe Steve should too.

“Well,” Joseph Rogers said, and Steve’s heart caught in his chest, suddenly hating what was coming. The other man pinched out his smoke, and tucked the inch-long stub into a pocket. Slowly pushed himself to his feet. “Sure, and this wet gets in your bones.” He reached for his rifle, slinging it over his shoulder, and looked down at Steve. “You’d better get back to your own men, soldier.”

He offered his hand with a smile, and Steve reached up to grasp it. He momentarily forgot his strength, as his dad pulled him up, and when Steve let go, Joseph shook his hand out, laughing. “Sure, you’ve got a grip there. “What’s your name, soldier?”

“Steven. Steven… Grant.” Caught himself just in time. Again. With an effort, Steve stepped back, and Lieutenant Rogers nodded at him, a slightly amused smile on his face.

“Godspeed, Steven.”

Steve stared at him for a long moment, almost long enough to make it awkward, memorizing the lines of his face, the way he cocked one eyebrow, the way he smiled, the eyes that stared into Steve’s. He couldn’t hold the words back.

“Thanks. Dad.”

He did his best to add a teasing smile, and the other man chuckled.

“Sure, son.”

Lieutenant Joseph Rogers gave Captain Steven Grant Rogers a little salute, then turned and stepped out into the rain. The darkness swallowed him up.

Steve turned and walked the other way, slogging through mud and passing men, but not noticing, not caring. He was glad of the rain, because it disguised the tears running down his cheeks, warm mixing with the cold. He didn’t feel the cold in his body though, not with the warm glow inside his chest.

And when the darkness finally hid him, it was with a plan, it was with a hope. There was a light in Steve’s eyes. Just like the one in his father’s.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos+comments always appreciated.  
> Don't forget to tell your dad, or your 'dad figure' you love them this Father's Day. Even if you embarrass them! ^_^  
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
